


A Compendium of Twisted Tales

by DefectivelyFlawless



Category: Original Work
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Horror, Multi, Mystery, Short Stories, Twisted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefectivelyFlawless/pseuds/DefectivelyFlawless
Summary: A collection of short stories and flash fiction that chills and befuddles the mind.





	1. Freed

I had always known that it was going to be a competition worth fighting for. Yet, I failed to realise how much it would hurt. A throbbing ache that settled deep within the caverns of my heart. To see him there, win her over, despite my best efforts to impress her. Everything I offered seemed so trivial. The disgust in her eyes, every time she caught me glancing, caused me to wonder: what had I done? He could never satisfy her. Not in any way. He was always so impatient. So enraged. So inconsiderate. 

But now he has left me with no choice. She is finally free from him. A satisfied smile stretched across my lips, as I held her head firmly under the water, watching the bubbles slowly fade away.


	2. Truth

I should never have told him the truth in the first place. Perhaps then I would not be here, in this dreadful place. What I’d give to see my sisters and dear friends again.

It was foolish of me, I know, and perhaps you may reproach me for it, but I truly believed to have finally achieved my happily ever after, when I married my prince. Oh, how young and giddy we both were! My blue coronation dress, the glimmering flowers, the eager and adoring faces peering up at us. How quickly it faded. During that particular night, I recounted all of my ordeals to him. After all, honesty is the best manner of a retaining a good marriage. I told him, happily narrating, about the mice, the daily chores, and the pumpkin changing into a carriage.

With a frown, I recalled how his face had abruptly turned plaster white as he stared at me. The next thing I remember is being dragged to Bedlam and having pills forced down my throat.


	3. The Thrill of the Rush

The coffee was bland, Anna observed, taking a sip. She drummed her fingers against the leather steering wheel, as she scanned the neighbourhood. Waiting.

She stepped out of the Cadillac, barely glancing behind her, neglecting to close it, and walked to the faded red entrance with chipped paint: her dear mother's door. With an axe gripped in her hand, Anna carefully counted her movements as she strode ahead, each number resonating in her head. Reaching for her back pocket, a rusty key appeared, which she slotted into the keyhole. With a gentle push, Anna stepped inside.

The aroma of whiskey seemed as if she'd stumbled upon a familiar stranger, as the pungent smell struck her senses. Her blazer came off, folded and placed on the counter next to the door – just like her mother taught her. Rolling her sleeves up to her wrist, she took a step forward, her bare feet brushing against the soft rug while the odour grew heavier. As Anna approached the living room, she could not help but to glance at a shattered frame containing a wrinkled picture. The girl in the photo stood upright and solemn, staring straight at the camera. A hand lay on her shoulder – a suspended moment of childhood. Gazing at the photo, memories flickered into Anna's mind like a film; indignant voices, smashing of glass, slapping of skin. It's comical looking back on it now.

Raising the discoloured axe, Anna took a deep breath; the faint metallic smell wafted through her nostrils, soothing her nerves.

Her thoughts drifted to her first night in a bar when she was twenty-two. Three years ago, to be exact, she had picked up a boy. He claimed to be nineteen despite the hint of a babyish face. His arrogance was the main trait that attracted her. Using her charm and wit, just as she'd practised, he fell for her. Convincing the boy to follow her had been effortless. A clandestine rendezvous on a deserted road was too tempting to ignore. The thought of his trusting nature caused her to smirk. The rest of the evening was a blur; she had first made him unconscious by smashing a heavy branch on his skull. She had then dragged him into a forest, the head being the easiest to slice off while his corpse lay motionless. She had raised the axe and swung at his arms and torso; a sense of ecstasy had run through her body, the feeling so intense that her knees trembled.

The memory caused her to grin. He was the first. The other ten were easier, each providing her with sport. Let it not be said that she had favourites. After all, they were treated equally.

The clatter of glass carried her away from her thoughts. A giddy smile appeared, as Anna firmly gripped her axe in her right hand while steadily moving towards the kitchen. Waves of heady pleasure circulated through her as she glanced at the figure drinking whiskey in the corner.

‘Hello mother –’


	4. Uncle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This flash fiction is not so much horror but more gritty realism. I wanted to concentrate on characterisation, particularly of the speaker.

I was the tender age of thirteen when my father told me that my uncle had died. My uncle was twenty-five with a wife and kid. The child was only three and was not aware of her father’s murder. _She_ was the person I felt the greatest pity for because the truth would impact her the hardest. My father told me that she constantly questioned her mother for answers she was unable to produce. I guess she was confused as to why her father did not arrive home after work or failed to kiss her goodnight. Her childish innocence made her think it was one huge game of hide-and-seek. Somebody should have just ripped the plaster off swiftly and told her the truth. It was cruel of them to get it a secret from her. She found out several years later from a newspaper cut-out that was lying in my room.

My uncle’s death was not something that concerned me, as it normally should, because I did not feel particularly attached to him. Sure, I felt gloomy for a couple of days, but it was not a sorrow that took over every inch of my body. The last time I had seen my uncle was when he bought me a milkshake from the old café that has now shut down. The council demolished it and made the place into a block of flats. Many people live there now.


End file.
